(TRIGGER WARNING: Child abuse)
You hate me! I know it!
I’ve offended you, hurt your feelings, insulted your culture, stepped on your toes and/or microwaved your favourite squirrel. The jury’s still out, but I quite possibly caused World War II and ruined the ending of your favourite television series.
You hate me. My anxiety said so. So there’s no point in arguing.
My anxiety never lies. She looks after me and prevents me from doing any more dumb shit than I have already done. My anxiety likes to remind me, daily, hourly even, of all the times I fucked up. It’s not to be mean; she does that to help me learn to stay in my corner and stop annoying other humans with my stupidity.
I don’t want you to hate me. I want you to love me. I’m small and lost and afraid and I need tenderness. But if I ask for tenderness, if I show my weakness, maybe you’ll get angrier and hit me with a wooden spoon or lock me in the cupboard.
I won’t ask.